Poetry Archives

I look at the swaling sunset
  And wish I could go also
Through the red doors beyond the black-purple bar.

  I wish that I could go
Through the red doors where I could put off
  My shame like shoes in the porch,
  My pain like garments,
And leave my flesh discarded lying
Like luggage of some departed traveller
  Gone one knows not where.

  Then I would turn round,
And seeing my cast-off body lying like lumber,
  I would laugh with joy.